


And Then The Night Settled In

by orphanerprime



Series: Petstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Brain Damage, Crime, Forced Prostitution, Gore, Murder, Neo Noir, Other, Petstuck, Prostitution, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Slavery, The Felt - Freeform, Violence, mitkri, noir, this gets very violent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:42:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphanerprime/pseuds/orphanerprime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s got trolls too, Boxcars.” His eyes are serious and there’s a fire burning there you haven’t seen in a long time. You feel like taking Caliborn’s neck between your hands and strangling the life out of him yourself. </p>
<p>--------------<br/>This is an exploration on the darker side of the petstuck au. The Midnight Crew comes across a mutant red troll in the most horrific of places. They save him, and with the developing parental feelings, find that there are more things worth living for on this earth than drugs and money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then The Night Settled In

**Author's Note:**

> ( The following story is going to be very brutal. It is my intention to explore the darker side to the petstuck au. Kankri will be a little out of character at first, due to abuse and his injuries. He will make a colorful and well-worded stand later on in the story, don't worry. 
> 
> I want this story to make you cry and feel outraged. Not at my actions, but at those that dare harm those different or weaker than themselves.)

They’ve got half an hour to finish this. Half an hour before they meet up with the boss and Droog and hightail it the fuck out of South Beach. The night is hot as hell and the moon is full, swelling and leering like some pale and glistening eye. The waves pound at the shore, just across the street. The whole place stinks of rot and piss and dead things. Tourists haven’t been here in decades. There was no need to keep it clean or crime-free. 

 

The building is old and smaller than the rest, painted a faded pink and teal. It fits in almost seamlessly with the other equally as dilapidated and rotting buildings. It’s just a smidgen taller than the rest, resting nearer to the beach than the others. The side alley is filled with over-run dumpsters and potholes and something that smells unspeakable. Deuce is a small suit-clad shadow by your side, intent on remaining unseen in the sodium darkness. 

 

The back door is wide open and almost rusted off its hinges, held open by a drooping potted fern. Deuce crouches in the doorway, sweat glistening on his upper lip. He squints brown eyes and he peers into the darkness of the gaping room. It’s empty, if his waving you over has anything to do with it. His dress shoes squeak only slightly against the linoleum floor of the back entryway. Through the small porthole window of the door you can see the kitchen, illuminated only by a small hurricane lamp. 

 

You go ahead this time, in case anyone leaps out at you. You push the swinging door open with a large and calloused hand, senses alert and breath steady. The kitchen is empty of people, a large and dim place. Dirty dishes and shattered pottery lie scattered about the floor and on the stainless steel counters. A few large cockroaches skitter by your foot and you can’t help but stiffen disgustedly. Deuce makes a small frightened sound, but he stands strong and small next to you. You glance back at him quickly, to see him give you a disgusted look. You nod and release the breath you hadn’t known you held in. 

 

Passing through the short hallway from the kitchen into a medium-sized dining room and again into a larger and more ornate hallway. It’s the lobby, crowded with chairs and end tables. What looks like the burnt remains of a concierge desk lay on its side in front of the old-style elevator. The stairs are relatively free of obstacles, and you wave Deuce along. He hops up the stairs, moving quickly. The place seems empty enough and you’ve got to move it along. You’ve wasted a good ten minutes just trying to be careful. 

 

The old and crumbling hotel only has four stories. You’re panting after Deuce, starched shirt feeling unbearably constricting in the tropical night. The second floor looks and smells even worse than the ground level. Deuce hesitates slightly at the smell coming through the plaster walls and you grit your teeth. It’s human rot this time. Heavy and omnipresent. 

 

A nearby door is wide open and you peek in tentatively. The room is dim and lit by the moonlight spilling in from the window. A figure lies on the bed, small and hunched. From the way it’s twisted, the person is bound to the bed. Deuce gasps, throwing a hand over his mouth. You walk closer to the form, seeing the dark hair spread out on the bare mattress like black silk. The woman in the bed looks at you fearfully, brown eyes wide and terrified. By the wounds on her wrists, you can tell that she’s been here for a little more than a week. She’s been divested of all her clothes and bite marks litter her chest and stomach. 

 

You hold your hands up and out, showing her your empty palms. You mean her no harm and you hope to convey that with your slow movements. She’s still frightened but at least she stops tugging at her restraints. Anger rises in your chest, fierce and burning hot. 

 

So this is what this rat bastard Caliborn has been up to. 

 

You lean over and untie her quickly, motioning to her that you have no intention of hurting her. She’s startled and sits, rubbing at her wrists. Deuce’s face is pale and drawn, back hunched with determination. 

 

“He’s no doubt got more girls here.” He swallows heavily. “You keep goin and I’ll get the rest of them.” The steady look he gives you tells you that there’s nothing to it but do as he says. 

 

You nod once, neck stiff and brows furrowed in anger. You turn back to the girl and give her all the cash you have in your pocket. It’s not much, just a five and a few ones. She stands, wobbly, and tears gather in her eyes as she rushes out the door. Deuce gives you that look again and you head back up the stairs, climbing slowly upward. The idea to free them is a little clumsy and rushed, but it’s better than letting them die here. The police will pick them up on the streets and the ones that can speak English will tell them all that happened. 

 

You hope to god that they get out in time. 

 

You’ve gotten to the third floor. More rooms, more stained carpet. This floor is darker, the windows blocked out with overgrown vines and cardboard. Someone whimpers behind a nearby door and your throat convulses. You hope Deuce hurries. You’ve got all of ten minutes left to this little venture. You were supposed to go up to Caliborn’s personal rooms and find evidence of his plans. 

 

By the multiple crowded rooms, you have no doubt found out where most of his money comes from. The idea of keeping multiple and helpless people under your roof as slaves to unspeakable deeds harrows you right your core. Of course you’ve seen prostitution and violence and murder and so many things. But you never get over it. Not really.

 

Besides, you’ve never seen something of this magnitude. If every room is full, if every room has some whimpering body behind its door, then he’s got a large operation going. Something dark and evil. Something that has help from the higher-ups, no doubt. 

 

You shiver, despite the heat, just thinking about it.

 

You leave the rooms alone, waiting for Deuce to come up and release the occupants. You dash up to the next floor, reaching the penthouse suites; there’s only two in such a small building, and both of them seem to be Caliborn’s. You rush over to the first, looking into the darkened room. It seems to be a gathering room of sorts, the bed having been removed in favor of old and rotting couches pushed up against the wall.

 

You push on to the next suite. The door is locked. With a good kick, the wood gives way under your foot. This one looks nearly untouched by the rot and graffiti you’ve grown used to. The bed looks used but clean, the chairs and couches are covered with blankets and sheets to hide the mildewed fabric. It even smells nice in here. 

 

Your guard tightens, and your eyes seems to pulsate with how hard you’re looking into the dimness of the room. Something feels wrong in the relative stillness of his room. It feels like something’s waiting for you in the shadows. You walk forward tentatively, hands to your sides and at the ready. You hate using guns. You’re more of a fist and brawn type of guy. 

 

You’re standing by the bed now, looking for a desk of some sort, or a pile of papers. Anything related to Caliborn or his future plans. Your eyes take some time to adjust to the darkness and your heart skips a beat at the sight of the long-awaited desk pushed up against the wall underneath a particularly bad print of some beachside resort. 

 

You pull open drawers, shifting through papers and unimportant looking pamphlets. Honestly, you have no clue what you’re looking for. Nothing seems of importance to your crew in the crowded drawers. It’s nothing but dirty magazines and wadded paper. 

 

You’re so ensconced in your search that you don’t hear Deuce’s footsteps clatter down the hallway until he’s standing in the doorway, panting. You jump slightly and feel a little careless for being so caught off guard. His face is pale and pained as he pants for breath. He holds up a hand, brows furrowing as he tries to get the words out between his teeth.

 

“There’s so many of them Boxcars!” His voice is rushed and pained as he claws at his tie, trying to loosen it. “Every room has someone in it!” His eyes are wide and unshed tears glisten in the depths. His breathing is less rushed, but his face is still pale and terrified. 

 

“I couldn’t find anything. There’s nothing here.” You gesture to the desk, your own face pale and jaw set harshly. 

 

He looks at you with defeated eyes, leaning heavily against the doorframe. You run your hand down your face, smearing the sweat at your lips and brow. The heat is almost unbearable up here and you wonder how he can handle it. 

 

“He’s got trolls too, Boxcars.” His eyes are serious and there’s a fire burning there you haven’t seen in a long time. You feel like taking Caliborn’s neck between your hands and strangling the life out of him yourself. 

 

Your thoughts are interrupted by police sirens wailing in the distance. They’re close, just a few streets away by the sound of it. You start, rushing over to look out the partially blocked window. The flashing lights of a few squad cars can be seen just down the street. 

 

You shoot an angry look at Deuce.

 

“It wasn’t me! It musta been one of the ones we freed!” He can’t stop the grin that breaks across his impish features. Despite the danger you two are in, you can’t help but feel a little proud of the guy. 

 

“Looks like we gotta go down the fire escape instead.” 

 

He nods and makes his way over to you. As you move over to the fire escape, you almost step on something curled up on the floor. It looks like a pile of pink frilly rags. But on closer inspection, it seems to be a small body. Your heart nearly stops, and you wave Deuce over. He gasps and reaches out to touch the thing. He turns it over, and a streak of moonlight illuminates the little being. It’s a troll, from the looks of it. A troll that’s been beaten and bloodied. Its horns are small and nubby, both of its eyes look swollen closed with the amount of bruises littering its face. The anger and outrage flares in you again, and you sigh heavily.

 

“I’m gonna kill that goddamn bastard.” 

 

Deuce nods emphatically. You reach out to check to see if the troll is still breathing. Its chest rises faintly, the little thing is almost invisible in the amount of pink lace that it’s swaddled in. It jolts slightly, keening a high and pained sound as it comes around. You pick up the little body, being as gentle as you possibly can. 

 

Deuce starts as a loud crash comes up from downstairs. You can’t stay here any longer. You rush out onto the fire escape, shushing the little troll. It stares up at you from underneath its swollen eyelids and your heart aches with a peculiar mixture of anger and protective instincts. The fire escape is a rickety, rusting thing but it holds your combined weight long enough for you to get to the alley floor. The sirens have quieted, but the alley is alight with the churning lights of the police cruisers. 

 

Deuce runs ahead of you and together, with the whimpering troll bundled in your arms, you disappear into the Miami night.


End file.
